Soldier Side
by Cheetah Goddess
Summary: The war takes a nasty turn for the Italian soldiers marching into Stalingrad. WARNING: Gore.


His hands were so warm, soaked in scarlet.

Blood.

It drenched his palms as he pressed them against the bullet hole in the soldier's chest, trying to stop the flow. No matter how hard he tried or how hard he pressed it never stopped, the blood slipping between his fingertips. The face paled beneath him—clammy hands gripped Feliciano's arm as the soldier jerked, drowning as the liquid filled his lungs.

This…wasn't supposed to be happening.

Men weren't supposed to be dying!

Despite his best efforts, the convulsions quieted abruptly, glassy eyes staring back at him. He peeled the hands away from his arm before he scrambled to his feet, leaving the fingers curled in death.

Another one…

_He had lost another one._

How could this be happening?

He wanted to close his eyes and cover his ears, and have it all be over. He wanted to run and hide until gunfire ceased to fill the air and the smoke cleared, run until he was miles away from all the fighting. He wanted to be off the battlefield and safe at home, surrounded by smiling faces.

He wanted this war to be over.

But the only thing he could hear were the shouts of soldiers. The screams of _his people_ as the enemy fired into their ranks and caused them to scatter, men shoving past Feliciano as they ran for their lives. All of them _knew_ their job was to fight, knew they were on enemy territory. They had known their mission when they first marched out onto the frozen fields, weary from the constant battles and low on supplies.

Yet the gunfire hadbegun with no one more aware—raining like hail and cracking like lightning, clogging the frozen air with its acrid scent.

No one could have known just how hopeless it would become.

Battles before could not compare to the bloodshed they were seeing now. The frigid Soviet air only caused their guns to jam and be rendered useless, unable to fire back as they were barraged with wave after wave of ammunition. With no means, there was no will to fight back.

No one knew what to do or how to react to the sudden turn of events, a painful truth Feliciano had been so desperately trying to deny. These people weren't soldiers. They were citizens. Men acting a role too great to fill. Men with families, mean with jobs, men with dreams; men who wanted to return home alive—return to their normal lives.

Men who were all dying.

Men he couldn't save.

Men who were shot right in front of his eyes, and he could do _nothing_ about it.

He wanted to help…but, even if he could, _who could he choose_? Everywhere he turned another man had already collapsed to the scorched earth, agonized cry drowned out by the unrelenting volley. There were too many to save—and even more that couldn't be saved, dead before their body hit the ground. Dead long before Feliciano could reach them.

He couldn't help them.

_He couldn't help them._

He couldn't do a single thing for them.

All the wishes in the world wouldn't halt the bullets flying through the air or stop the screams of his people as they fell to the ground like ragdolls, left to cry pleas of mercy until death brought silence.

_Why_ had it come to this?

Why were his people dying? His people who fought for him—fought _just_ for him despite fears and the bleak future ahead of them. They could never be _just soldiers_. Every face had a name, a story, a personality; every single life was precious to him.

And every time one of those lives would end it was as if nail after nail was being driven deeper into his heart.

More screams, more bullets. His knees shook as the ability to stand almost escaped him, helpless but to watch the massacre around him. Helpless as men continued to push past him or tried in vain to fight back. The gunfire seemed to intensify—rattling in head, resonating even if he covered his ears.

Wasn't he promised an easy victory? Wasn't this war supposed to be over in no time?

Wasn't he supposed to have help? Where was the back-up, the reinforcements, more supplies, more resources?

_(…wasn't __he__ supposed to be here, protecting him?) _

He hadn't taken the war seriously. He tried to focus on frivolities. Running away from his problems was just too easy— laughing, eating, and being friendly—much simpler than focusing on training or listening to the whispers of doubt around him. He had treated life as a game, thinking everything would eventually go back to normal with time.

But this was no longer a game.

This was hell.

His men were dead, and and those not dead were dying. His world was burning, and he was alone in his own hell. The gunfire never stopped. The world never stopped.

What was he to do?

What _could_ he do?

Feliciano _ran_.

Ran for his life. Ran as fast as his bruised and battered body would let him, tears streaming down his cheeks.

Why wouldn't it stop? Why wouldn't everything just _stop_!

He tripped over the debris that littered the battlefield, tripped over the bodies of _his own soldiers_ as he fled, thinking only of survival. He didn't want to die. He didn't want his people to die!

No longer could he hear the sounds of gunfire or the cries of the dying.

He could only hear the sound of his own heartbeat banging against his ribs—feel the aching of his heaving chest, struggling to catch a breath as he ran through the smoke and dust—the crushing weight of pure terror squeezing the life out of him.

_So scared…_

He was going to die alone in this place. He was going to die. He didn't want to die!

But there was nowhere he could run—nowhere to turn. He was completely surrounded. The dead were at his feet—and those who brought that death quickly closed in around him.

He was going to die.

Yet he still ran. Screaming. Screaming in fear, screaming for his people, screaming for help, screaming for it to all just end.

_(Screaming for him.)_

His arm hung limp.

_Hung limp_.

The pain didn't register until he had looked down, scarlet soaking his sleeve. His own blood.

A bullet—

His body was numb. He vaguely registered the grenade flying through the air, but never saw where it landed.

All he knew was white hot pain ripping him apart, screams of fear twisting into ones of agony.

* * *

><p>Any conversation had long since died away amongst his soldiers. The forest around them was eerily silent and oppressing, devoid of any sounds but the echoes of distant gunfire ringing through the hollow air. There was nothing in sight. No wildlife, no enemies, no allies. No towns or cities loomed on the horizon. Nothing at all. Just his men as they marched wearily through the frozen countryside, the sounds of hundreds of boots slapping against the dirt.<p>

It was driving him mad. Everything was impossibly calm. Any disturbance in the monotony, any sneeze or crack of a twig sent his nerves on edge.

The calm before the storm, he was sure.

Ludwig was uneasy.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I worked on this for two years. Don't care enough anymore. w Based on the picture by virus-AC74 on deviantART, and loosely on Operation Uranus.**


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